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Ash Like Snow
Mar. 12th, 2026 11:52 pmI just submitted a prose story to an anthology book to maybe be featured. Fingers crossed here, I'll obviously post either way, but part of the terms are I'm allowed to pitch it to other companies which DEFINITELY means I can post it here, though not like anyone would find this even if I was prohibited, quite frankly. So uh...yeah here's some writing. Admittedly still not my cleanest work but I'm hoping it's good enough.
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"One day the killing will be over, either because the oppressed will have their liberation or because there will be so few left to kill. We will be expected to forget any of it ever happened, to acknowledge it if need be but only in harmless, perfunctory ways. Many of us will, if only as a kind of psychological self-defense. So much lives and dies by the grace of endless forgetting." ― Omar El Akkad, One Day, Everyone Will Have Always Been Against This
Every repeat of the motion was hell on my body. Shovel down, foot slammed onto it to cut through the hard dirt, lift up and over my shoulder. There might’ve been something comforting about the motion once, but after a few years the gratification of the job has waned. The fact that I feel like I’m going to melt doesn’t help either. There’s something to be said about the heat of the summers here, but it’s always unbearable next to a Mecha reactor core.
You can always feel the radiation lashing at your suit, not as bad as it used to be of course, it took years for these reactors to cool down enough to be approachable. It’s been fifty years since the end of the war, since the Americadian Mech attacks. We’ve only been able to start digging these things up a few years ago. By hand as well, we were told that trying to use more advanced methods might end up damaging the cores, leading to something even worse. Of course, the Americadians were surely trying their absolute best to develop technology to help us. Ha ha.
So those of us crazy enough took our chances with shovels and protective suits. I’ve been on the job since I turned 18. Couldn’t imagine doing anything else, despite my bitching. It’s a good job with good people trying to help, that knowledge is the only thing that makes the sore mornings worth it.
I breathe a sigh of relief when I hear in my earpiece that we’ve dug it up enough for it to be extracted. It’s not until I lift my head up that I notice that the sweat dripping from my face was obscuring the glass of the helmet I was wearing. Harder to notice when it was all dirt but as I look around for the ladder to climb out of the pit made by countless hours of digging the world is shown to me in warped shapes. Each step is slow and deliberate and not just because of my body being sore. I haul myself up the ladder, muscles sore every step of the way, and shuffle my way to where I left my water.
I scowl, when I set it down it was at least in the shade, figured I’d get back here before the sun moved too much. Damnit. I take my helmet off, confident I’m far enough away from the core reactor. I wish for a breeze of some kind but all I get is more heat hitting my face as I wipe the sweat off my forehead, brushing some of my bright red hair out of the way and then grabbing my water bottle. I barely get a sip of the entirely too warm water before I hear someone heading my way.
“Isla!” comes a familiar voice. Without even looking in their direction I wave them over, taking a swig of the water. I’m lowering the bottle from my lips as my visitor closes the distance. I watch as they take off their helmet to reveal dark skin and black hair, and just as much sweat dripping off of them as I can feel on me. I watch them look around for something and cock an eyebrow. After a few moments I catch blue eyes taking a glance at my water bottle before looking sheepishly at me.
“Forgot your water again, Noel?” I ask blankly.
“It was here, I swearrrrr!” they whine with an exaggerated arm movement.
With a playful roll of my eyes I toss my bottle to them. Which they barely catch. From there I unzip my jacket to grab my cigarettes. While no technology to make the process of digging the cores out was made, we were able to make thinner outfits with the same protection as a hazmat suit, a recent innovation. It’s no different from wearing a pair of sports pants and a thin jacket. I quickly take out my pack and lighter and light one up.
Noel, who had finished drinking more than their fair share of my water, speaks up again. “Can’t believe after being near a radioactive death trap the first thing you do is threaten your lungs.”
My only response is to blow out some smoke and hold out my hand for my water bottle back. Noel obliges, handing me back water that feels like it should be boiling. Noel turns their attention back to the operation site, and while they did a good job of hiding it when they know I’m watching their face, I can now more easily notice the heavy breaths and the slight shake in their arms. They’re not used to this like I am. They used to just work at this part time, a good deed while they did college. But after the Americadians suddenly pulled out of the relief effort on the account of their new leader we were left with less than half of the manpower we used to have. Noel stepped up to full timer, and it’s taking an obvious toll. I start to say something but nothing comes out. Not smart enough to help them with school, not crazy enough to say we don’t need every person willing to help.
There’s a silence as we both stare out to the horizon, the setting sun illuminating the construction site we were just working at. Even now it’s hard not to be mesmerized and disgusted at the remnants of the past being dug up. There’s a narrowing of my eyes as I watch wires be attached to the half destroyed mecha suit to help move it to a secure plant where it can be destroyed. Its one remaining arm, powerful enough to level buildings, flops lifelessly, alongside its head. No telling where the lower half of the body went, but that’s less of our concern since it’s not radioactive.
How much must they hate us, to want us annihilated so utterly? Oh I’ve read the history, and I know the problems with our own government at the time. We didn’t need outsiders to so forcibly meddle in our government, but a change was needed. That's the big lie they hide behind though, to this day. That we were savage in all the ways they were civilized. Easy to believe that when every interaction you have with the outside is designed to help you look down on them. When you get to pretend to be the heroes saving people from themselves. Easy to peddle that it was all justified even if you’re sad it came to that point when you only profit off of the death, and don’t have to live in a hollowed out society kept on life support by a machine that wants to replace rather than aid. Only those on the losing side ever have to examine what went wrong.
“Impressive, isn’t it?” Noel’s voice cuts through my more and more macabre thoughts. I look back to see them still staring out into the distance, their back silhouetted by the setting sun, the orange glow being almost blinding.
“What is?” I ask as I tap some of the ashes off of my cigarette. Watching as they float down to the ground and litter the ground. A microcosm of the death and destruction that rained down on us like snow.
“All of it, I suppose. How much they did…how much we endured. There will always be work to be done, but we survived. And…” finally Noel turns around, their blue eyes even more striking than usual with the orange glow even as they avoid looking directly at me.
“I guess I mean the machines too. I’m not dumb or naive…it just seems so sad to only think about them in the context of…what happened.” Their words are both too fast and too slow. Both rushed out in embarrassment while also treading the minefield of the conversation. A small chuckle escapes my lips as I light up another cigarette.
“You want them to be like your cartoons?” I say while cocking an eyebrow.
“You’re not that much older than me, you can’t pretend to not get it! I just can’t help but wonder what it would be like to pilot one, you seriously never have?” Embarrassment quickly turns to childish indignation.
The only time I imagine them is when I think about how terrified I would’ve been had I seen them in action. The sheer feeling of powerlessness. The sheer hate…or would it be indifference…radiating off of the machines as they destroyed. I don’t say any of that though, they’re right. They’re not naive or stupid, they know more about the harm caused than most people today. They’re just choosing to take something as theirs. If you rail against every single slight, interrogate every single thought you have that could be misconstrued, then you’ll be too exhausted for the real battles.
“Alright, alright, you caught me. The original show is my favorite…” I say, having pulled the cigarette out of my mouth and holding my hands up in surrender.
What we’re discussing is War Machine Vitron, one of the first real collective attempts to reckon with what happened outside of documentaries. An animated series about war, which showed what a conflict might have been like if both sides had Mecha. It quickly got co-opted into becoming more and more lighthearted, partially for our own societal sanity, but also because it was easier to market the lighthearted seasons to those in Amercadia. With that kind of media business trade being one of the things they introduced us too. Our culture, their design.
“...suppose I just miss when it mattered.” I finish, a bit more solemn than in the first half of the sentence.
“I’d have thought the point of all this is so it never had to again. That we wanted to move away from it all, not wallow in it like it’s the only thing that defines us.” Noel says. Not with malice but with genuine hope for the future.
“Hope is the one thing we can both agree on.” I say before putting the cigarette back into my mouth and focusing on that for a while. Letting the smoke fill my lungs so I can focus on something other than the past for just a moment.
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"One day the killing will be over, either because the oppressed will have their liberation or because there will be so few left to kill. We will be expected to forget any of it ever happened, to acknowledge it if need be but only in harmless, perfunctory ways. Many of us will, if only as a kind of psychological self-defense. So much lives and dies by the grace of endless forgetting." ― Omar El Akkad, One Day, Everyone Will Have Always Been Against This
Every repeat of the motion was hell on my body. Shovel down, foot slammed onto it to cut through the hard dirt, lift up and over my shoulder. There might’ve been something comforting about the motion once, but after a few years the gratification of the job has waned. The fact that I feel like I’m going to melt doesn’t help either. There’s something to be said about the heat of the summers here, but it’s always unbearable next to a Mecha reactor core.
You can always feel the radiation lashing at your suit, not as bad as it used to be of course, it took years for these reactors to cool down enough to be approachable. It’s been fifty years since the end of the war, since the Americadian Mech attacks. We’ve only been able to start digging these things up a few years ago. By hand as well, we were told that trying to use more advanced methods might end up damaging the cores, leading to something even worse. Of course, the Americadians were surely trying their absolute best to develop technology to help us. Ha ha.
So those of us crazy enough took our chances with shovels and protective suits. I’ve been on the job since I turned 18. Couldn’t imagine doing anything else, despite my bitching. It’s a good job with good people trying to help, that knowledge is the only thing that makes the sore mornings worth it.
I breathe a sigh of relief when I hear in my earpiece that we’ve dug it up enough for it to be extracted. It’s not until I lift my head up that I notice that the sweat dripping from my face was obscuring the glass of the helmet I was wearing. Harder to notice when it was all dirt but as I look around for the ladder to climb out of the pit made by countless hours of digging the world is shown to me in warped shapes. Each step is slow and deliberate and not just because of my body being sore. I haul myself up the ladder, muscles sore every step of the way, and shuffle my way to where I left my water.
I scowl, when I set it down it was at least in the shade, figured I’d get back here before the sun moved too much. Damnit. I take my helmet off, confident I’m far enough away from the core reactor. I wish for a breeze of some kind but all I get is more heat hitting my face as I wipe the sweat off my forehead, brushing some of my bright red hair out of the way and then grabbing my water bottle. I barely get a sip of the entirely too warm water before I hear someone heading my way.
“Isla!” comes a familiar voice. Without even looking in their direction I wave them over, taking a swig of the water. I’m lowering the bottle from my lips as my visitor closes the distance. I watch as they take off their helmet to reveal dark skin and black hair, and just as much sweat dripping off of them as I can feel on me. I watch them look around for something and cock an eyebrow. After a few moments I catch blue eyes taking a glance at my water bottle before looking sheepishly at me.
“Forgot your water again, Noel?” I ask blankly.
“It was here, I swearrrrr!” they whine with an exaggerated arm movement.
With a playful roll of my eyes I toss my bottle to them. Which they barely catch. From there I unzip my jacket to grab my cigarettes. While no technology to make the process of digging the cores out was made, we were able to make thinner outfits with the same protection as a hazmat suit, a recent innovation. It’s no different from wearing a pair of sports pants and a thin jacket. I quickly take out my pack and lighter and light one up.
Noel, who had finished drinking more than their fair share of my water, speaks up again. “Can’t believe after being near a radioactive death trap the first thing you do is threaten your lungs.”
My only response is to blow out some smoke and hold out my hand for my water bottle back. Noel obliges, handing me back water that feels like it should be boiling. Noel turns their attention back to the operation site, and while they did a good job of hiding it when they know I’m watching their face, I can now more easily notice the heavy breaths and the slight shake in their arms. They’re not used to this like I am. They used to just work at this part time, a good deed while they did college. But after the Americadians suddenly pulled out of the relief effort on the account of their new leader we were left with less than half of the manpower we used to have. Noel stepped up to full timer, and it’s taking an obvious toll. I start to say something but nothing comes out. Not smart enough to help them with school, not crazy enough to say we don’t need every person willing to help.
There’s a silence as we both stare out to the horizon, the setting sun illuminating the construction site we were just working at. Even now it’s hard not to be mesmerized and disgusted at the remnants of the past being dug up. There’s a narrowing of my eyes as I watch wires be attached to the half destroyed mecha suit to help move it to a secure plant where it can be destroyed. Its one remaining arm, powerful enough to level buildings, flops lifelessly, alongside its head. No telling where the lower half of the body went, but that’s less of our concern since it’s not radioactive.
How much must they hate us, to want us annihilated so utterly? Oh I’ve read the history, and I know the problems with our own government at the time. We didn’t need outsiders to so forcibly meddle in our government, but a change was needed. That's the big lie they hide behind though, to this day. That we were savage in all the ways they were civilized. Easy to believe that when every interaction you have with the outside is designed to help you look down on them. When you get to pretend to be the heroes saving people from themselves. Easy to peddle that it was all justified even if you’re sad it came to that point when you only profit off of the death, and don’t have to live in a hollowed out society kept on life support by a machine that wants to replace rather than aid. Only those on the losing side ever have to examine what went wrong.
“Impressive, isn’t it?” Noel’s voice cuts through my more and more macabre thoughts. I look back to see them still staring out into the distance, their back silhouetted by the setting sun, the orange glow being almost blinding.
“What is?” I ask as I tap some of the ashes off of my cigarette. Watching as they float down to the ground and litter the ground. A microcosm of the death and destruction that rained down on us like snow.
“All of it, I suppose. How much they did…how much we endured. There will always be work to be done, but we survived. And…” finally Noel turns around, their blue eyes even more striking than usual with the orange glow even as they avoid looking directly at me.
“I guess I mean the machines too. I’m not dumb or naive…it just seems so sad to only think about them in the context of…what happened.” Their words are both too fast and too slow. Both rushed out in embarrassment while also treading the minefield of the conversation. A small chuckle escapes my lips as I light up another cigarette.
“You want them to be like your cartoons?” I say while cocking an eyebrow.
“You’re not that much older than me, you can’t pretend to not get it! I just can’t help but wonder what it would be like to pilot one, you seriously never have?” Embarrassment quickly turns to childish indignation.
The only time I imagine them is when I think about how terrified I would’ve been had I seen them in action. The sheer feeling of powerlessness. The sheer hate…or would it be indifference…radiating off of the machines as they destroyed. I don’t say any of that though, they’re right. They’re not naive or stupid, they know more about the harm caused than most people today. They’re just choosing to take something as theirs. If you rail against every single slight, interrogate every single thought you have that could be misconstrued, then you’ll be too exhausted for the real battles.
“Alright, alright, you caught me. The original show is my favorite…” I say, having pulled the cigarette out of my mouth and holding my hands up in surrender.
What we’re discussing is War Machine Vitron, one of the first real collective attempts to reckon with what happened outside of documentaries. An animated series about war, which showed what a conflict might have been like if both sides had Mecha. It quickly got co-opted into becoming more and more lighthearted, partially for our own societal sanity, but also because it was easier to market the lighthearted seasons to those in Amercadia. With that kind of media business trade being one of the things they introduced us too. Our culture, their design.
“...suppose I just miss when it mattered.” I finish, a bit more solemn than in the first half of the sentence.
“I’d have thought the point of all this is so it never had to again. That we wanted to move away from it all, not wallow in it like it’s the only thing that defines us.” Noel says. Not with malice but with genuine hope for the future.
“Hope is the one thing we can both agree on.” I say before putting the cigarette back into my mouth and focusing on that for a while. Letting the smoke fill my lungs so I can focus on something other than the past for just a moment.
